


Beautiful Pain

by Telephonoscope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Anorexia, Autism, Depression, Drugs, M/M, Melodrama, Post Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telephonoscope/pseuds/Telephonoscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's heart breaks as he remembers Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what frame of mind I was in when I wrote this - honestly I think it's a little melodramatic. Hmm. 
> 
> Only a few of the tags come into serious play - I just don't want to trigger anyone.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have clinical depression and autism. I write either from familiarity or massive amounts of research.
> 
> [ iwillincendiotheheartoutofyou](http://iwillincendiotheheartoutofyou.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr kindly beta'd and Britpicked this for me. Any remaining mistakes are purely my own.

Those dark moments after Sherlock's death when John, barely able to breath after being slammed aside into the road by the man on the bike, clutching, grasping for Sherlock, were pristine in his mind. Crystalline sharp and pure, the memories slashed through him, never ending.

Hours later in the leaden quiet of the sleeping hospital he convinced Molly against her better judgment to let him into the morgue. She was pale and had been crying, eyes red-ringed, matching the ruby of her lips. Lipstick - for Sherlock he guessed. When John had first met them Sherlock had rather abruptly told Molly that she looked better with it. It was absurd how the lanky man had so casually told the woman that he didn't find her pretty, her crumpled face revealing exactly how much he had hurt her. No doubt Sherlock had thought he was being helpful, possibly even kind. He did that. His awkward attempts at showing people he cared for them regularly turned and bit him. 

John had come to understand a lot over the time he'd spent with Sherlock. He was a fine man. Occasionally cruel as all people were, but his tongue had the ability to slice to the core. A wonderful man that was sorely misunderstood despite trying his best against the constant animosity. Sherlock's line of work was questionable, true, but he'd found his calling. He made good use of his talents, something that couldn't be said for most people John had encountered in his life. 

Once, Sherlock had spent a long evening speaking of his past. He spoke and John listened, Sherlock's perfectly enunciated words mesmerizing him as it grew late. As his eyes grew dry from lack of sleep and his replies became quiet murmurs John realized something. No matter how different Sherlock was, he was important. He provided a service that no one else could do. Many went to university hardly daring to dream that their minds could perform like his.

Massive amounts of struggling had made schooling an ordeal for Sherlock. He'd had no friends and his marks had forced him to repeat modules. Courses outside of his field of interest bored him so that he would spend the entire time staring at the clock, eyes faithfully registering each second ticking away. He was treated as an ignoramus despite his obvious brilliance. After three years of difficulty he'd left and never looked back, no doubt mentally torching the campus behind him.

Mycroft supported his sibling after that. Sherlock hated it. The constant coddling he'd received as a child had made him determined to become independent. He was an adult and he would live like one. His brother had let him know clearly that his generosity was only temporary until he figured out what he was going to do. John thought that inwardly Sherlock knew he was lucky to have a brother that loved him so, even if it was hidden under Mycroft's aloofness. They were alike that way. Sherlock wanted to defy the odds that most thought were stacked against him and Mycroft knew it was only a matter of time before it happened.

Once, privately, after a torturous hour drive to a moldering warehouse God knew where, Mycroft had told John that a psychologist had examined his younger brother and diagnosed him as a sociopath. Mycroft let John know clearly that the woman had been prejudiced if not a fraud and that if he'd had his way she'd have casually disappeared never to practice again. She hadn't been willing to open her eyes and actually _see_ Sherlock and that galled Mycroft. His family wasn't one that you mistreated so easily. After the woman had dismissed him Sherlock had retreated ever more into himself, despising all doctors, not just those that worked in the field of psychiatrics. Self-medication via white powder was easier than the pressure of condescension.

“Odd that he trusted you so easily,” Mycroft had mused, eyeing John speculatively while pulling the hem of his trouser leg down to better cover his crossed ankle. John may have blushed a little. It was nice to feel special. Coming from the cold man of the government it was nearly a compliment.

Without the degree he needed for his career and the misdiagnosis shaking what little confidence he had, Sherlock had shut down entirely. He didn't speak for a year. He lived off buttered toast and coffee, losing weight rapidly and growing ever paler. A photo full of dark, tumbling shoulder length hair and dull eyes was clipped to some paperwork detailing the young Sherlock's stay in hospital. John had stumbled over them during a fit of cleaning, irritation with his flat mate’s ever present mess spurring him into action. The papers were folded many times, the words rubbed out in the creases – Sherlock had read them many times. The doctors accused him of anorexia before it was worked out that he was severely depressed. 

After his immediate needs were solved a few months of care at an expensive facility in the country helped him to heal. Of this period there were no pictures, but there was a brochure torn into two. The top half held the image of an old ivy-choked manor with hints of cream stone peeking through. Large antique oak doors and smiling actors dressed as patients reassured that it was the best. Posh, but John didn't expect anything less from the Holmes men.

Speaking long into the night, Sherlock's deep voice rarely stopped for breath as he revealed his past, blue-green-grey eyes staring straight into John's with determination. Twice John made tea, handing it over to Sherlock who sipped it in those moments when he couldn't find the words he was looking for. Outside it rained, enveloping the flat in a pillow of white noise and comfort.

It had been encouraging to John, his friend's torrential monologue showing that he was indeed trusted by the reclusive man. John doubted that Sherlock would ever come to feel the same as he did, but it didn't matter. For the first time in his life he truly knew what it meant to care for someone as much as he loved himself. Of course Sherlock would have scoffed at that, announcing that humans were inherently selfish animals. That, although it may be possible to love someone equally with oneself, they could never love someone more than that. Sherlock probably would have been right, but John's heart would have argued.

Molly wouldn't stay in the morgue with John. She worked with the dead but never before had the corpse been someone precious to her. He had been a little jealous of her attention to Sherlock at first. She was smart, pretty, and perhaps a little neurotic. Altogether attractive and she wanted Sherlock. Yet another misunderstanding, although how it was possible that Sherlock didn't notice was a little curious. Her subtlety steadily decreased throughout the months John knew her but the shock on Sherlock's face on Christmas had been unmistakable when her present to him was revealed after his snide deductions about it. The gentle kiss he gave her on the cheek despite his aversion to touching or being touched without a layer in between was telling. Sherlock did like her and he wanted her to know it. The day of Sherlock's death brought a change to her, as if only with his absence she realized how important she had been to him. The lipstick was a prominent sign of her knowledge. Acceptance that Sherlock, oddly enough, had meant well.

The morgue was as white as always, the burning lights above leaving nothing hidden. The room had no sympathy for John's pain. 

John wondered how difficult it had been for Molly to do her job. She had replaced Sherlock's clothes with a sterile sheet and the blood had been cleansed from his hair and skin. Even if Sherlock had impossibly lived he'd no longer be himself. Brain-dead no doubt after a fall like that. The sight of him was gruesome, but not as bad as it had been. Most of the damage was hidden by his curls. Reaching out to touch the soft halo of hair, John found that his fingers couldn't finish the gesture. His hand hovered there for a time, just an inch away, before he dropped his arm back to his side. 

John cried. He wasn't ashamed to admit that. Anyone who wouldn't have in that situation would be inhuman. No, that was wrong. Sherlock might not have cried and he was entirely human. If he had been religious he would have gone on to be entirely angel or... whatever. A force of good. Impenetrable, sometimes merciless, and amazingly, wonderfully good.

**  
*

When the tea arrived Sherlock hadn't even been gone for a month. The box sat in its shipping container, settled like an egg into a nest of brown strips. Wrapping it was thick black paper perfectly folded into sharp corners with a gold embossed emblem branded into the top.

John had forgotten about the tea, his daily attempts at ignoring his grief leaving little room for him to remember inconsequential details. The tea had been a present for Sherlock. A special brand of Earl Grey that John hadn't been able to find in the shops. According to the consulting detective this particular brand used better quality tea and lavender than anything John could find on his own, but really John had never been able to taste the difference. Blue silk was how Sherlock had first described the tea, adding milk and sugar to it before handing it over. He'd closed his eyes trying to search for the taste of _blue_ but it hadn't come to him. Running out of the tea had seemed to cause a minor panic attack. For some reason, although it was his favorite, Sherlock was reluctant to buy it off the internet. He made other purchases online, but food was off limits.

John hadn't planned to tell his friend that he'd ordered it online; he would have just given it over and watched for the widening of Sherlock's eyes. If John was lucky Sherlock would briefly break out into his trademark quirky smile.

He took the tea into the kitchen and got the kettle going. He shouldn't waste the tea even though his first instinct was to hurl it out the window or set it on fire. Sherlock would have appreciated the dramatics.

Attempting to organize while the kettle did its magic required a force of will. What seemed like a million boxes needed to be gone through and John wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball. Greg had helped to carry them up from the old bomb shelter in the cellar that Mrs. Hudson had let them use for storage. Notes about cases a couple of decades old were to be found haphazardly stuffed into corners of moldering cardboard containers, wrinkled by the weight of trinkets, old toys, clothing, and books upon books.

Reading the notes had been astonishing. Seeing a young Sherlock work out how criminals behaved was almost like having known him. Always analytical, the scribbled writing nonetheless carried distinct empathy. Sherlock had been new to the game and it showed, even though he might not have known it. Twenty years would cause anyone to become jaded. Still, as an older man in his thirties, Sherlock had fiercely concerned himself with the well-being of strangers. His work had been stimulating for him but it had also been important. An altogether irresistible combination, John suspected.

Having already packed up the newspaper clippings, notebooks, and other crime-related debris to give to Greg, John turned towards the remaining items. It didn't look like Sherlock had ever gotten rid of anything at all. Actually, he probably hadn't. He had been known to keep completely destroyed microscope bits in case he could use them for something else later. 

Anything that looked sentimental or like an heirloom John set aside for Mycroft. Who knew if the man would want any of it, but it was the right thing to do. Not even a letter of condolence had arrived from Sherlock's brother and a reply to his own message with Anthea had never come. Perhaps coldness was a family trait, passed down for hundreds of years. How they got around to having children he'd never know – and didn't really want to think about it.

The most adorable bear dressed as a pirate held John's attention until the kettle boiled, the anthropological digging of Sherlock's past forgotten. It was love-worn and carefully mended at the ears and little stub of the tail. No doubt a certain precocious young boy had carried it with him everywhere, thumb in mouth as he stared at the world through impossible eyes that registered the tiniest details. The water began to roll and the doctor stood with popping knees and stretched his back. He really wasn't getting any younger. The bear swung from his hand by a little paw as he carried it to the kitchen and put it onto the table to watch as he made his tea. A little milk, a little sugar.

Crying seemed the easiest thing to do when he realized that he had automatically made two cups.

Maybe he would keep the bear.

**  
*

Depression. Sherlock and John had shared that. It should have been simple to pick up the phone and call his therapist, as simple as walking down to the hospital to admit himself, but that was out of the question. He couldn't move through the fog in his mind. Trapped on the sofa wrapped in Sherlock's robe was how they would find him. He'd timed it so that Mrs. Hudson would be gone. She'd come home and bring up the groceries that she'd kindly bought him even though he had told her not to. She wasn't his housekeeper.

As the flat got fuzzy around him he watched the door and blissfully made believe that he heard light footsteps running up the stairs. A smile wobbled across his face as his hand twitched in an effort to reach out, but it was already too heavy. The door would crash open and there Sherlock would be. Everything would be alright.

His vision was going. 

It was getting harder to breath but he didn't care because there. There.

Sherlock was there in the door holding his hands out to John.

“John! Oh, God!”


End file.
